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Beldaruit breathes in the steam rising from the freshly brewed tea, relishing in the unfamiliar scent. It is a new blend, a rare one Qifrey just brought back from his travels. Beldaruit cannot wait to taste it. Speaking of his old apprentice, though –
Qifrey is antsy about this, he can tell: the constant squirming, rubbing one foot against the other, hands shifting around the smooth surface of the teacup in front of his face that is held idle without drinking, the clear lens of his glasses turned foggy by the steam. Such was the impatience of youth.
Regardless, this conversation must be had.
“Well, have you considered it then? About what you want to do further into the future?”
The scowl on Qifrey's face is still as childishly petulant as it used to be. It makes nostalgia stir in Beldaruit's chest.
“I don't understand why you must ask such things to begin with,” Qifrey grumbles. “There is nothing wrong with what I'm doing right now. Or has the gossip finally gotten to you? The shame? What a pity, for the Wise to have raised a purposeless vagabond of a first disciple?”
Sighing, Beldaruit lifts his own cup, watching the intricate water sculpture vanish into ripples. “Of all things one could say, you could hardly ever be called purposeless, now, could you?”
He wearily takes a long sip of the tea. The flavour is as lovely as expected.
(In the meanwhile, Qifrey tenses – surely he means nothing by the insinuation? Surely he doesn't suspect?)
“Regardless though, I don't believe there is anything inherently wrong with being a wandering witch – if it truly is what you want to do, that is.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Qifrey bristles.
Over the rim of the cup, the look Beldaruit levels him with is sharp, the glint of his eyes wise and knowing.
It's infuriating.
“Only that I think you have always longed for something else entirely. A way to leave the Assembly behind you might have already found, but not a place beyond these waters – a home on the Surface to settle down in. For a very long time now.”
Qifrey's frown is familiar in its unspoken infliction: And whose fault is that? Beldaruit is aware of it all – his faults, his failures and his inability to make the submerged land a home Qifrey could return to. He gracefully accepts the disdain.
“You think wrong, then,” Qifrey refutes. Lies. What Beldaruit suggests... The idea of it is… too permanent. Too terrifying, in the face of a murky future, with the Brimhats’ schemes brewing just out sight and beyond reach. “I'm quite happy with what I am doing.”
Just living on the Surface is enough for now. Anything beyond that is not for now. Not yet.
...One day, perhaps. He grits his teeth. Perhaps he'll let himself find on the Surface something more than Brimhat hunting grounds then. Until then – he will endure. He has to, until he can reclaim his future from their hands, tooth and nail.
“I see,” replies Beldaruit, his face unreadable, thoughts cryptic as ever. “It is merely a suggestion. Think about it, will you?”
“Sure,” Qifrey dismissively agrees, finishing his tea in one go, chair scraping as he gets up.
“And please do give young Olruggio my regards.”
The ensuing glare he receives too is familiar. Beldaruit lightly chuckles.
“You stop poking your nose around my business!” Qifrey hisses, walking away.
“Wait,” Beldaruit calls to his retreating back. “One last thing – about the shame.”
“What of it?” Qifrey asks, turning around.
Do you not know? You're my pride and joy.
“I have none to spare for myself,” he says instead. “Do you really think you need to concern yourself about bringing any more of it to add on to my name?”
“Whatever.” Beldaruit could swear that the tip of Qifrey's ear is red as he whips back around. “... I'll be back later,” he calls out without turning back this time, right at the threshold. “And I'll think about it.”
The door swings shut without waiting for Beldaruit's reply. Beldaruit sighs fondly at his usual flightiness as he pours out a refill. The tea is quite lovely, after all, and his aches are ever present.
He leans as far back as the sealchair permits while settling down to drink, feeling quite drowsy all of a sudden. Leave it to Qifrey to be inconspicuous about being considerate.
“Vagabond, huh?” In amusement, he smiles before his expression warps into concern.
“But you must not deny yourself of your desire for too long,” he whispers within the shroud of privacy, watching hazily once more the rising steam. It resembles a silverwood in its paleness, in the thin wisps that stretch out like branches as it dissipates, vanishing into thin air. “Not if your nature is what I suspect it to be.”
This sounds too much like the start of some cautionary tale, he thinks on the verge of dozing off. And isn't that his greatest fear?
He sighs. “Don't you end up undoing everything you have gained over this half-life you insist on living…”